“The bridge was coming along nicely; within the next day or two, the ends of the archway would meet above the stream. This bridge would stand for hundreds of years, he thought with satisfaction. Even after the stream itself had changed course, this bridge would still be here. Trout’ s Bridge, they’ d call it, long after everyone had forgotten who Trout had been – A shout from below made him jam his lenses back onto his nose. He frowned. Fresca was coming up from the village, waving furiously. Su...rely it couldn’ t be time for lunch already? Fresca shouted something. A few steps nearer and he could make out the words. ‘Trout! He’ s back, Darrow’ s back!’ Trout flung down his trowel and hurried along the muddy path to the harbour, with Fresca at his heels. Even without a looking-tube, he recognised Heron’ s brown sail as it swayed to and fro across the mouth of the bay. By the time Darrow’ s little boat reached the jetty, half the village was there to greet him, and the children jostled to catch the rope that he tossed out.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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